old ghosts, carefully tended by queerofthedagger  

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old ghosts, carefully tended

From the moment that the messenger had brought Fingolfin’s invitation to his great Feast, Finrod knew that it would be a mistake to come.

Unfortunately, not attending would have caused a diplomatic incident of proportions that neither Finrod nor Fingolfin could afford, and so, here he is; sticking closely to Turgon’s side, focusing on food and wine and dance, and ignoring the tangible weight of Fingon’s and Maedhros’ presence on the other side of the richly decorated hall.

Beyond the necessary etiquette, they have not sought him out once. Finrod had asked for this—back on Mithrim’s shores, back when Maedhros was just recovered enough, back when—

Back when Fingon and Maedhros had been rebuilding whatever was left of them, had wanted Finrod to do the same. Back when he could not—the blood of Alqualondë, the betrayal of Losgar, Fingon’s disappearance, all still like lead within his blood.

Back then, they had argued until things turned ugly. Now, they greeted Finrod with all the required politeness, and retreated to their own corner right after, giving Finrod his space.

Finrod hates it. That is almost worse than the age-old grief still gnawing at his bones.

Perhaps he has been focusing on the wine a little too much. By the time dawn crawls across the horizon, Finrod feels heavy and maudlin, exhaustion tugging at his limbs.

Turgon has long since retreated to his quarters, and the hall is emptying of people. Up by the high table, Maglor is in deep talk with Fingolfin, their dark heads bowed close together and making a strange picture. Finrod’s brothers have disappeared to Eru knows where, and only a handful of couples are still dancing, swaying with an exhausted pleasure that Finrod refuses to envy.

He drains his goblet and rises. What nonsense, to be miserable on such an occasion; have they not been through enough, to know better than to grieve on joyous nights? They are alive; they are merry; old history weighs too heavily to be dragged around like this.

The air of early morning is soothing, once Finrod steps outside. Mist lingers across the surface of the still lake, and it smells like spring and fresh grass, like damp earth and reinvention.

There is no one around. Finrod wanders down to the water’s edge, and watches the sun climb atop the mountains.

He does not think of Fingon and Maedhros, back in the corner of the hall, flushed and laughing. Does not think of Valinor, and how careful the three of them used to be, always; of the trenches between their fathers growing, and it, in turn, colouring their every appearance in a public space.

Does not think of how simple it seems now, for the two of them to carve out a pocket of space for themselves. How easy to bracket each other, with Finrod no longer there to sharpen things into triplicity.

“Ingoldo.” It should not surprise him, in truth, that Maglor has followed him. With a sigh, he turns and smiles; feels, at the same time, a stab of guilt for how much easier this is.

It should not. For all intents and purposes, Maglor had caused him much of the same grief that Maedhros had—had been his friend, in fact, long before Maedhros and Fingon had become his lovers.

And yet. The wound’s edges are less serrated, less raw. Their friendship, most likely, will never be quite the same, but it is easier to look at Maglor and not feel like he is coming apart.

“It is late,” Maglor says, watching him closely. “Or early, depending on your philosophical inclination. Are you well?”

For a fraction of a moment, Finrod considers telling the truth—the brittle longing, the loneliness, the fury still festering like a wound. The fear of what it might do to him, if he keeps failing to cauterise it, keeps failing to watch Fingon and Maedhros and not choke on his resentment, to witness their happiness and not hate them for it. Then he shrugs, slants a smile at Maglor; pushes it all back down, and soaks in the sincerity of morning until he can breathe enough to speak. “Of course; merely wondering if I will find my room, rather than stumble in on some poor unsuspecting Sinda.”

Maglor snorts, inelegant and honest, revealing that he, too, must be tired or drunk, or both. He throws an arm around Finrod’s shoulders and turns him back to the large complex that Fingolfin had built for the occasion.

“Come, cousin, I shall show you to your room, and you shall sleep off your maudlin mood. Tomorrow is a new day—get your rest while you still can.”

Finrod is too tired to protest, and so he lets Maglor steer him back inside, through wood-panelled corridors with poor lighting, until they reach a door at the end of a corridor.

“Are you sure you know where my rooms are? I remember—“

“Trust me,” Maglor cuts in, his voice low. Before Finrod can second-guess the strange, compelling tone of him, Maglor pushes open the door and gestures for Finrod to step inside.

Finrod does. Behind him, Maglor wishes him a good night, and then closes the door, leaving Finrod to dim light and silence.

He turns toward the room and freezes. Maedhros, from where he sits at the writing desk across the room, stares back at him with the same expression Finrod suspects he himself is wearing—startled, increasingly uncomfortable by the second, and caught so off guard that he does not quite succeed at wiping the emotions off his face before they are discerned.

“What are you doing here?” Maedhros asks, and the thin thread of hope beneath the words reignites the anger within Finrod’s blood so swiftly that it leaves him light-headed.

“What am I doing here? Your brother is the one who tricked me into coming. Varda knows I am a fool for trusting him, but—“

Maedhros groans, the sound of it cutting off whatever else would have made it out of Finrod’s mouth. Maedhros is dressed down, he notes; soft white tunic, underclothes, his braids undone. All jewellery he had worn is discarded on the desk before him, and the scarred stump of his right arm is exposed without care, the sleeve of his tunic pushed up to his elbow.

“I am sorry, Findaráto. I did not ask him to.”

“Did you not?” It comes out before Finrod can stop himself, before he can parse through the disappointment that wants to drown him. Before he can remind himself that there is not a single reason for why he should trust Maedhros even a little.

Maedhros watches him for long moments, his eyes cold in the dim light of morning. “If I wanted to talk to you, I would ask, not use my brother to trick you.”

The implication lands like a blow, precise and devastating. Finrod takes another step closer, then stops himself, fists clenching at his sides. Maedhros has ever been like this, to him—every single word eliciting a reaction; making him fly, bringing him low, tearing him open. What a terrible thing to still find it true, so many years and betrayals later.

“Right. And of course, you would not.”

The flash of a grimace, and Maedhros must truly be tired, for it to shine through. Ever since Thangorodrim, his control is iron-clad; even Finrod, never as close to him in the aftermath as he once was, knows it.

“I tried,” Maedhros says, holding Finrod’s gaze. “You told me in no uncertain terms what you thought of such an attempt. Do not blame me, now, for doing as you asked.”

Finrod, with all the strength he has left within himself tonight, forces himself to inhale. Hold. Exhale. To not look away from Maedhros, and to keep his voice level when he says, “Of course not. I apologise for intruding; I am sure Maglor merely got confused. I will take my leave.”

“Nothing to—“ Maedhros starts, and then breaks off as his eyes flicker to something behind Finrod.

Finrod, turning, ought to be less surprised when he finds Fingon between himself and the door. Finds Fingon, in fact, blocking his way, a stubborn set to his jaw that Finrod wants to find less dear than he still does.

The room, suddenly, feels very small.

“Twenty years,” Fingon says, before either of them can speak. His eyes are dark. “Twenty years, this has gone on. Will it be another twenty, if we do not resolve this tonight?”

“Finno—“ Maedhros tries, and the fact that somehow, for some inexplicable reason, this has left him and Finrod on the same side of whatever argument they are having makes Finrod want to laugh. Makes him want to weep, with how it is still the same, ever the same, between the three of them—a shifting tide, a balancing, a triangle that only ever keeps itself stable when they are at their best and worst, both.

“I have said everything that had to be said,” Finrod forces, looking from Fingon to Maedhros and back. “You may forgive him, after everything, but you cannot expect the same of me. You cannot—“

“I am still here, you know,” Maedhros says, and his voice is still level, but his eyes are sharp, now. “I may not have orchestrated your presence here, but you have not, in fact, ever told me what needed to be said. Not that I am unable to take my guess, but—“

“You left us,” Finrod snarls, his restraint breaking. “You slaughtered my mother’s people, Fingon right beside you, and then you took those ships and left us, either to the Valar’s judgement or the Ice. None of what Morgoth has done to you erases that fact, no matter what Fingon seems to tell himself. At the end of it all, you still left us both, and set fire to everything we ought to have been to you.”

At last, Maedhros breaks his gaze away, turning his face toward the window. Early sunlight is washing the land gold beyond the glass, and it catches in Maedhros’ hair, flaming auburn almost as Laurelin used to graze him.

Finrod misses him so much that it burns.

“I know,” Maedhros says, at last, meeting Finrod’s gaze again. “I am sorry.”

“That does not—“

“Except,” Fingon starts, and does not flinch when both Finrod and Maedhros turn to stare at him.

“Fingon,” Maedhros says, a warning in his tone that merely causes Fingon to roll his eyes, as if this is an argument they have had countless times.

It sets Finrod’s teeth on edge, these spaces between them that he is outside of, that he chose to be outside of. That they left him out of, through blood-slick piers and reckless rescues, through hours without him as Maedhros clawed his way back to being a person, into being someone who does not need anyone except the one who had brought him back.

Tilting his chin up, Fingon holds Finrod’s gaze. “He stood aside at Losgar. It was not he who set fire to the boats, and that does not fix everything, I know, but—“

“Fingon.” Maedhros, again. Finrod stares at the blocked door behind Fingon, and thinks of dark smoke in the distance; of Fingon, silent and horrified beside him; of thinking, at least, at least we are united in this—one blade crimson, the other not, but this, but this—

Finrod stares at the blocked door behind Fingon. He misses them so much that it feels like going under.

“Some days,” Finrod finally says, his voice like gravel in his throat, “I resent both of you so much, I almost understand how Fëanáro went mad with it.”

A pause, laden and terrible. Then, Maedhros exhales and rises from his chair. Says, “Ingo,” and it is terrible, to find that it still has the same cadence when they fight—exasperated but fond, so much enduring love in the simple vowels that there is no room for doubt that, no matter what, the fact of that will not, cannot change.  

“Do not call me that,” Finrod forces out, turning back to glare at him. “You cannot—you cannot even give me this, can you?”

“What—“

“One thing. Can you not give me one thing to resent you for? To make this easier, severing what long should have been severed, leaving you both to—to whatever it is you are doing.”

“Ingo,” Maedhros says, again, taking a step closer as if wanting to reach out. His placid facade is cracking, his eyes going soft at the corners, and Finrod wants to laugh. Wants to take whatever diplomatic incident his absence would have caused and deal with it ten times over this, wants to tear his hair out at how much all this still levels him. He is heavy with the wine, with the early hour, with grief so old now, it has calcified into something sharp and painful, ever scraping his insides raw.

He has no means of defending against this, against Maedhros in the golden light, against Maedhros who had defied his father for them, against Fingon who must have convinced Maglor to bring him here. Who never, it seems, is able to stop trying, again and again, for either of them, refusing to be left behind yet again. Finrod, in truth, never had the means of defending against this; ever has he fallen between them too easily—the bright heat of them too golden, and Finrod’s fingers ever too eager to get burnt.

Finrod is so tired of the cold, of the ice unthawing in his bones. Of holding onto his anger, of his lonely tower, of pretending that this has not the might to break him.

With his shoulders straight and his heart wild like moments before battle, he holds Maedhros’ gaze. “Kiss me, then.”

Maedhros stops where he is, the room going strangely silent. Behind him, Finrod can hear Fingon sucking in a breath, and he can picture his face without looking at him—the furrowed brow, the teeth worrying his bottom lip. The hope he will be failing to keep from sprawling across his entire face.

“That is the point of this, is it not? So, here, I am asking; will you deny me this, too?”

Maedhros stares at him, conflict playing across his face like light on water. Ever has Finrod loved him best like this, that single-minded focus for a riddle, one that he will not stop prodding at until the solution reveals itself to him.

At last, Maedhros crosses the remaining space between them, three quick steps until he is close enough to touch, to remind Finrod of their difference in height. Of how long it has been, since they have been this close, and whatever defiance Finrod has clung to flares, certain and indomitable.

He splays a hand over Maedhros’ waist, only the thin, threadbare tunic between his palm and the warm skin beneath. Tilts his head back to look at Maedhros once more, every thin scar and mark to his beautiful face visible like this. Finrod wants to trace them, catalogue them; to compare them to the image of memory he has tucked away, and draw the maps anew.

“Well?” Finrod asks, and raises a brow. He has no illusion about either of them not seeing right through his bravado, but right here, for once, it does not matter. There is only the knife’s edge and all of them balancing on it; is only their history on one, and the dark-streaked future on the other side. There is only the question of whether they will make a greater ruin of each other tonight or tomorrow.

Maedhros lifts his hand, and runs his fingers through Finrod’s hair, over his temple, a thumb across his jaw. “There are enough reasons, you know. You could take your pick.”

Finrod makes a noise from deep within his throat—aiming for scorn and landing on desperation—and leans into Maedhros’ touch. Closes his eyes, and says, “They are not enough. None of them are enough.”

Maedhros kisses him. It is hard and biting, a kiss like a gauntlet cast. His hand holds Finrod fast as if he is worried that, after all, Finrod will change his mind. As if Finrod could; as if he does not push close, presses them together; curls his other hand around Maedhros’ jaw to hold him close, and sinks his teeth into Maedhros’ bottom lip until the noise he knows so well tears itself free from Maedhros’ throat. As if it is not this, this unchanged fact, that makes Finrod laugh into the kiss, a noise more like a revelation.

Behind him, Fingon comes up, pressing himself to Finrod’s back. Setting his mouth to Finrod’s throat, warm breath and teeth to Finrod’s jugular, and oh, he does not know how he has gone so long without this. Does not know how he is meant not to dissolve between them, and the howling grief within his chest.

Fingon wraps an arm around Finrod, warm and familiar; pushes the other into Maedhros’ hair and murmurs in both their ears, a litany of endearments and I missed you; Ingo, please, we missed you.

At last, Finrod breaks the kiss, and lets his head fall back against Fingon’s shoulder. He feels torn open, his heart exposed and sore, yet again—still—at their mercy.

It is no wise choice, he knows. Yet when Fingon turns him with gentle hands to kiss him, too, his mouth warm and soft and devastating, Finrod cannot muster the resolve needed to stop; to tell himself that he does not want this, bruises and self-wrought doom and all.

“This does not—I do not forgive you. I do not forgive either of you,” he says, because he must. Because it is the truth. “But I am—I am so tired, of missing this. Of missing you.”

Fingon trails his mouth over his cheek, to his temple. Pushes the three of them closer together, a triune knot without resolve. “We know, Ingo. It is alright.”

Behind him, Maedhros hums, and pushes his hand beneath Finrod’s tunic, splays it wide across his stomach. “Stay,” he says, his voice rough. Simple as that.

He does not plead. Does not forswear his oath, or his brothers, or all that he has done to them. In a way, it is a comfort; Finrod would not believe him if he did, and Maedhros would not love him if Finrod made him lie.

That, at least, has ever been true—has stayed true, across betrayal and abandonment, across the resculpting of a person, and the bonds that none of those things succeeded to break, even when they ought.

Finrod makes no answer. They all know better than to swear false oaths. Says, instead, “Take me to bed, then,” and does not think of how it feels like coming home, betrayal and loss nestling like a friend into the spaces between, roots burying into the foundation of them.

Ever, it seems, it is true in these strange lands. Ever, it seems, is Finrod bound to end up loving in despite.

Chapter End Notes

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